


After Hours

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Banter, Consent Issues, Frottage, Guilt, Gym Sex, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Post-Episode: s02e07 Lull, Sparring, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27712190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: After Johnny has kicked Kreese out, Miguel finds him at the dojo.
Relationships: Miguel Diaz/Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 16
Kudos: 90
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	After Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlingargents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/gifts).



The place feels bigger with Kreese gone. Lighter. Emptier, too.

 _Good fucking riddance,_ Johnny thinks as he pours himself a drink and toasts to Kreese's army picture on the wall. What kind of vain-ass dipshit hangs up a picture of himself anyway? 

Fucking Kreese.

Why the hell did Johnny think things were gonna be different this time around? Stupid. People don't change. He hasn't really changed, has he? LaRusso hasn't changed. And John fucking Kreese sure as hell hasn't changed either. 

Johnny should never have fallen for that shit. Should never have invited him back in and let him mess with those kids. Bad enough that he lost his own kid to LaRusso; now he lost the rest of them to Kreese. All it took him was two fucking days alone with them and he already messed them up.

Fuck it all.

He hurls his glass across the room as hard as he can, pleased at the sound it makes when it collides with the wall and shatters into a hundred little pieces. _Should've been that asshole's ugly face_ , he thinks viciously, and reaches for the bottle again. Would be nice to smash that one over Kreese's head. But Kreese is not here, and why waste perfectly good vodka?

Johnny takes a hit straight from the bottle. And then another. 

And one more, or maybe two or three until the bottle feels lighter and his head feels heavier.

The door to the office creaks open, and for a moment, Johnny thinks that Kreese is back. And wouldn't that be great? Johnny already regrets not kicking the guy's nose in and making him bleed. If he gets another chance, he won't let the opportunity pass like that again.

It's not Kreese, though.

"Sensei?" Miguel pokes his head round the door.

Oh, hell no! Johnny's not in the mood to be anyone's mentor tonight. "What're you doing here, Diaz? Nursing a wounded ego after Stingray got the drop on you at Coyote Creek. You know how it goes. You go down, you pick yourself back up, and you hit back twice as hard the next time."

Glass crunches under Miguel's feet as he steps into the room. "No, I know. It's not about that. It's just—"

He falls silent, shuffling around until Johnny loses patience. "Spit it out, kid. I don't have all night."

Well. Technically, he has. Doesn't mean he wants to sit here and wait for Miguel to work up the nerve to say whatever he's come here to say. The way the kid hunches his shoulders and averts his gaze reminds Johnny of the Miguel he first met – the loser who let a bunch of bullies kick his ass, not the tournament winner who won't take shit from anyone. 

"What you said earlier, in the woods. When you asked me if that was how I wanted to live me life. You were right. And I don't. Want to live me life like that, I mean." He faces Johnny, all serious and determined, his usual cheerful attitude unusually subdued. "I'm sorry for disappointing you."

 _Jesus._

What's Johnny supposed to say here? Reassure the kid that he wasn't disappointed, probably – even though yeah, he kind of was. Make sure Miguel's all right. Tell him it'll be okay. 

But he's never been good at the whole touchy-feely crap. His forte's always been tearing people down rather than building them up. Kreese's legacy, Johnny thinks bitterly. Kreese may have been a bad sensei, but no one could accuse him of teaching lessons that didn't stick. That's half the problem. Kreese has always been too fucking good at making his students internalize the crap he taught them. And Johnny was his star student, alright.

He reaches into the bottom drawer of the desk and pulls out another glass. His last one, now that the other one is in pieces all over the floor. It used to be a set of five or six, but fuck knows what happened to the rest.

He pours himself a generous inch. But Miguel's looking at him all miserable and sad, a little like he did when LaRusso's daughter ditched him – only _worse_ now, so perhaps he needs the drink more than Johnny does. Besides, Johnny can always keep drinking from the bottle.

"Here." He holds out the glass for Miguel, who gives it a skeptical look. "Come on, take it. It's not gonna bite."

The kid tentatively reaches for it, his fingers cold when they brush against Johnny's.

Johnny raises the bottle towards him. "Cheers."

Miguel's face scrunches up when he drinks, throwing his head back and downing the shot. He promptly starts coughing, and Johnny laughs. "Still can't handle your liquor, huh?"

He pours him another anyway, and Miguel doesn't protest.

"Sorry, Sensei." He's drinking in careful little sips now instead of swallowing it all at once. It costs Johnny some restraint not to keep mocking him, but the kid's looking a little embarrassed already. Rubbing it in would probably be too much. "I don't really have a lot of practice. When we celebrated getting into the tournament, that was my first time, and after what happened at Aisha's party..."

"When I was your age, I—" Johnny stops himself mid-sentence, realizing that he's the opposite thing of a role model. "You know what? Don't do the shit I did when I was your age."

Miguel grins. "Except for karate."

"Except for karate. Right on." Wiping the mouth of the bottle, Johnny screws the cap back on and puts it away. "Wanna show me what you guys have learned while I was gone?"

"Now?"

Johnny shrugs. "Sure, why not?"

"But you're—I mean—" 

Miguel hesitates. He looks both excited and conflicted at once, which is a little weird because he's usually more eager to fight. He motions towards the desk, and Johnny has no idea what he's getting at until he awkwardly raises his empty glass. 

Oh. Right.

"What, you think I'm too drunk to kick your ass?" Johnny scoffs. _As if._ "Maybe you're my best student, but that doesn't mean I couldn't beat you blindfolded and with my hands tied behind my back."

Miguel ducks his head. Maybe it's a trick of the light, but Johnny could swear that the kid's blushing, the tips of his ears turning red. It almost makes Johnny want to apologize for the hyperbole, reassure Miguel that, okay, maybe he'd have a chance to win if Johnny actually did have his hands bound rather than him just being mildly buzzed.

At least that's what Johnny thinks until the go back out into the dojo hall and finish their bows, and Miguel distracts him with a half-hearted elbow strike Johnny easily blocks, and then sweeps Johnny's leg, sending him crashing down onto the mat so hard that the air's driven right out of his lungs. 

_Should have seen that one coming_ , he thinks, flat on his back and scowling up at Miguel's triumphant face. 

Maybe his reflexes aren't quite as sharp as they usually are.

His leg protests when he gets up, a piercing deep muscle pain that feels like someone took a knife to his thigh. Johnny grimaces. Those things used to hurt a lot less when he was younger. Or maybe he's just forgotten how much they hurt. He kicks other people's asses more than he gets his own ass kicked these days, and thank fuck for that.

When he resumes a defensive position, he feels Miguel's eyes on him. The hesitation that's written all over his face could almost be _concern_ , and it pisses Johnny off. Miguel looks like he's about to suggest they take a rain check, so Johnny motions for him to attack again. "Come on. Is that all you got?"

It takes Miguel a moment to get past whatever misgivings he was harboring. Then he charges again, opening with a straight punch Johnny's ready for. He evades it and ducks away from the front snap kick Miguel follows it up with, and he catches the kid in the side before he can pull back. 

"Too slow," he taunts.

Miguel grins at him, wide and cheerful, his hair sticking out in all directions like it's electrified and a flush spreading out across his cheeks and neck. Johnny can't suppress the surge of triumph at the joy the kid's radiating. He'd bet Miguel's never been this happy training with Kreese. Of course he hasn't been. Kreese sucks the joy out of anything he ever touches and every room he enters, like a massive black hole of misery and anger. 

He's taught the kids a few good moves, though, Johnny's got to admit when Miguel comes at him again, faking a knee strike before going in for a couple of fast-paced punches in quick succession. 

Miguel's got faster. Relentless. More brutal, too, and Johnny isn't sure if that's a good thing or not. Doesn't have time to think about it now, because he's too busy blocking.

The problem with Kreese's karate is, he's all about 'strike first', and sometimes he forgets to teach that a well-executed defense is quite literally half the battle. Johnny's never going to buy into LaRusso's 'karate is just for defending yourself' crap, but waiting for an opponent to get so caught up in their attacks that they miss how it leaves them open for a counter-strike? Yeah, that's always pretty damn sweet.

Miguel makes the mistake of going for the leg sweep again. Not bad in theory – it worked once, so it might work again – but this time Johnny's prepared for it. He sidesteps and uses the moment Miguel's unbalanced to kick him straight in the chest. He goes down, falling right over like a domino – which would be hilarious, if it wasn't for the fact that his foot's still half-hooked behind Johnny's knee and, yeah, fine, Johnny's maybe not on top of his game. Instead of twisting away and staying on his feet like the experienced fighter that he is, he finds himself tumbling forward. 

Forward, and down.

He braces his fall with his forearms so he won't crush the kid's face when he inevitably lands on top of him. 

Johnny feels a little dizzy, a dull ache brought on by tension and vodka spreading across his skull. If he was alone right now, he'd probably just stay where he was, fall asleep and wake up hungover and with a crick in his back tomorrow morning. He might still do that, but he should probably let Miguel get out from underneath him first. Which he'll do. Any second now.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Sensei," Miguel says, right next to Johnny's ear, his breath heating up Johnny's skin.

He half-heartedly pushes himself up on his arms. "Never apologize for taking an opponent down, Diaz. Even if it was more accident than skill." 

Miguel's smile stretches broadly. "Who says this was an accident? Maybe it's a new move I was trying out."

Cocky little shit. Johnny snorts. "Yeah? Gotta tell you, any move that ends with you on your back isn't a good move."

He watches a blush color Miguel's cheeks again, watches the kid turn his head away and bite his lips, and for a moment he thinks it's just a reaction to being called out. He doesn't _get it_ – not until he shifts a little and feels Miguel's cock digging into his hip, unmistakably hard. 

Well, fuck.

Not like he hasn't been there himself. It's just adrenaline. Physical stimulation. Another body moving against yours. No big deal. 

"Look, I—" 

He tries to find the right words to diffuse the awkwardness, but before he can settle on something that doesn't sound condescending or creepy, Miguel cuts him off. "Don't!" 

Johnny half-expects him to scramble away, but he's just lying there, perfectly still, stretched out on the mat beneath Johnny with their legs all tangled up. He looks like he's about to say more, so Johnny shuts up and keeps his pointless reassurances in check to hear Miguel out. Nothing's forthcoming, though.

Seconds tick by while Miguel's staring up at Johnny with wide, dark eyes, his gaze unblinking like he's frozen on the spot, the overhead lights reflecting in his pupils.

Johnny stares back. He should be getting up. He should make a dumb joke to defuse the tension. 

He's not sure why he doesn't. Inside his brain, there's nothing but white noise, and the hyperawareness of Miguel's body against his own. He feels it when Miguel takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling under Johnny's.

"Fuck it," Miguel mutters quietly. 

Before Johnny has time to wonder what he's on about, Miguel lifts his head off the mat and slams his mouth onto Johnny's. 

It feels more like an attack than a kiss, closed-mouthed and too forceful, all enthusiasm and no skill. If that's how Miguel was kissing LaRusso's daughter, it's no wonder the girl broke it off, Johnny thinks, before his mind catches up with what's happening, reminding him that this is _his student_ and they're not— He isn't— 

This isn't a thing he does. 

He tries to push himself up and away, but Miguel has a dead grip on him, his fingers bunched up in Johnny's shirt, clinging to it as if he's standing on a cliff-edge and his hold on Johnny is the only thing that's stopping him from falling. 

"Kid, you don't..." 

Johnny has no idea what the hell he's saying. He can feel Miguel's hands tightening, pulling at the cotton until it's taut across Johnny's back, like he's trying to physically stop Johnny from moving away. "This isn't gonna happen."

Johnny's tone is firmer than his resolve feels, especially when Miguel does exactly what Johnny taught him and won't take no for an answer.

"Please, Sensei," he says – and Johnny really, really wishes he'd stop addressing him like that right now. It's one thing to get a kick out of it when he hears the chorus of 'yes, Sensei' in the dojo. But this, this isn't— _Fuck._

Miguel keeps looking at him with those sad, imploring doe eyes, and Johnny's always had a massive fucking soft spot for those, from the moment Miguel first came to him after the cops let him go and the kid started begging Johnny to teach him to fight. 

_Should have said no back then_ , Johnny thinks. It sure would've spared him a hell of a lot of crap. 

Except he wouldn't have wanted to miss it for the world, the chance of doing karate again, teaching the kids – teaching Miguel, especially. He'd been a mess before Miguel came into his life. And yeah, sure, maybe he's still a mess now, but it's not the same.

Point is, if he couldn't deny Miguel then, when he barely even knew the kid, what chance does he have telling him 'no' now, after he's spent months and months teaching him and caring for him, when the kid's stretched out underneath him, rubbing his hard cock all over Johnny's hip and looking at him like he's gonna die if Johnny won't get him off?

He grapples for a last-ditch effort to end this before it's too late to go back. "It's a really bad idea." 

It's a weak argument, and he fucking knows it. If someone had tried to shoot him down with something as half-assed as that, he wouldn't have let it deter him; he'd have known that he had a shot. 

Miguel shakes his head. "I don't care." 

Of course he doesn't care. He's a horny teenager with a crush on his mentor. At seventeen, Johnny hadn't met a bad idea he didn't run straight towards, either. 

Thirty-something years haven't changed that, it seems, because when Miguel is tilting up his face to kiss Johnny again, he doesn't turn away, doesn't stand up, doesn't do any of the things he knows he should be doing.

He'll blame it on the alcohol tomorrow. On LaRusso. On Kreese. On _something_ – anything that's not Miguel's soft lips and his insistent cock and his pleading eyes, and the way they make Johnny's defenses and his resolve falter.

Johnny kisses back before he can stop himself. 

He shifts his weight onto his right arm and uses his free hand to tilt Miguel's chin up, changing the angle so it's an actual kiss and not just an aggressive smash of mouth against mouth. 

The barest hint of stubble rasps against Johnny's fingers, and if he had his mouth free to talk he wouldn't be able to resist making a crack about it. He can't make himself pull away, though, not when Miguel's lips open so eagerly underneath his and he makes a little noise deep in his throat, halfway between a moan and a plea. He probably doesn't even know what he sounds like, or what it does to Johnny.

He's hard. 

Has been hard for a while, and as much as he'd like to pretend that it's just physical stimulation and the rush of adrenaline from the fighting, that's not it. He doesn't really get boners during sparring. Hasn't in decades. The last time it happened, it had been him on his back like that, much like Miguel now. The thought alone should make him stop, but he resolutely pushes it away. He isn't Kreese, and Miguel isn't him. Johnny's certainly never been asking for it as eagerly as Miguel does.

Miguel makes a sound of protest when Johnny moves, like he expects Johnny to try and get up. As if he could, now. 

"Hey, it's okay." Johnny aims for reassurance, but his voice is all fucked up. Probably a lame thing to say, anyway, but he isn't good at the comfort thing. He's more a man of action.

He shifts his hips so his thigh is pressing down against Miguel's groin. The effect is instantaneous. Miguel gasps and his eyes flutter shut, his head dropping back against the mat with a thud.

"Oh God."

Johnny snorts. "I'm flattered, kid, but just keep calling me sensei." 

It's just a stupid joke he's unable to resist, but it figures that Miguel's too distracted to recognize it as that. 

"Yes, Sensei," he says, voice breathless and raspy and, _fuck_ , Johnny should have kept his smart-ass comment to himself. His cock twitches in response, and he knows that Miguel feels it from the way his eyes fly open and he stares at Johnny like he can't believe he's for real. "You—" 

He sounds awed, the same reverence in his tone and wide-eyed wonder as he had at the beginning of their lessons whenever Johnny showed him a cool new move. 

"What?" Johnny scoffs. "You thought I was just selflessly helping out without getting anything out of it? Yeah, sorry, I'm not really the altruistic kind of person."

"That's not true," Miguel protests, altogether too seriously.

Johnny isn't really up to arguing about whether or not he's a good guy, and how Miguel might not be the most objective person to make that judgement call right now. Doesn't mean that his cock isn't pretty excited about Miguel's unshakeable belief in him. 

"Oh, shut up," Johnny tells him, milder than he usually would. He cuts off whatever argument Miguel was going to make with another kiss. 

Miguel's still clinging to Johnny's shirt while he arches up against him, rubbing himself off all over Johnny's thigh. That desperation and eagerness should be embarrassing, and Johnny would probably mock the hell out of it if Miguel was panting after anyone else like that; but him being so desperate for _Johnny_... Shit, that's one hell of a turn-on. 

It's catching, too. Johnny's lazy thrusts speed up until they're rutting together, their breathing loud and fast in the empty dojo. The scent of sex and fresh sweat and Miguel's minty shampoo is clogging up Johnny's nose, overpowering even the characteristic rubber odor from the mats that always fills the room. 

Johnny bends his leg so his thigh presses down harder against Miguel's cock. Even through several layers of clothing, he can feel it jerk in response, and then Miguel is coming, making an aborted sound. His hands drop away from Johnny's shirt only to tighten around his sides, their grip so firm that Johnny will probably end up with symmetric patterns of finger-shaped bruises that he won't be able to explain away as training injuries.

That's a problem for tomorrow, though. Right now, Johnny doesn't care. He likes Miguel's hands on him, likes how strong he's become since he was this scrawny kid getting beaten up in a parking lot, likes that it was him, Johnny, who helped Miguel build up all that strength and skill.

It takes Johnny a bit longer to come, because he's not a horny seventeen-year-old with a hair-trigger anymore. But with Miguel's flushed face smiling up at him and his hands firm and sweaty around his waist, it's easy to let himself get carried away, thinking about what it would be like to actually fuck Miguel, strip him down and push into him, see if he can take cock as eagerly as he took in all the other lessons Johnny taught him.

"Come on, Sensei," Miguel says, sounding a little too cheeky even when he's still out of breath, and there's a split second when Johnny wonders if maybe the little shit knows exactly what this is doing to him. But before he can give the idea some consideration, Miguel's right hand leaves Johnny's side and slips between their bodies, down to where Johnny's boner is pressed against Miguel's hip.

He traces the outline of Johnny's cock with his fingers before rubbing his palm against where the head is poking insistently against the front of Johnny's pants, and that's all it takes.

Johnny blows his load inside his boxers like a teenager. It's sticky and gross and awkward, but Miguel's grinning like he won another tournament, and that alone was worth it.

His leg cramps up a little when he rolls off Miguel and onto his back. 

They lie shoulder to shoulder as Johnny catches his breath. His face is turned up to the ceiling, his eyes closed against the bright neon gleam of the overhead lights, but he doesn't need to see to feel Miguel looking at him. He should probably ask what the kid's thinking. If he's okay. If he wants to talk. 

Shit.

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, a queasy feeling spreads, now that the rush of endorphins is ebbing away and reality is setting back in. There's a reason why he doesn't fuck around with his students. Didn't. _Didn't_ fuck around with students. Shit, shit, _shit_.

Behind his temples, a dull thumping ache is building up. He remembers reading somewhere, probably in one of those chick magazines they have in the dentist's waiting room, that sex was a great cure for headaches. He should write a letter to the editor and tell them to stop spreading lies. Or maybe it's only true for girls, who knows. Johnny sure as hell didn't have a headache before he started messing around with Miguel.

He squints his eyes open when he hears a rustle next to him and feels the mat shift as Miguel gets up. 

Against the glare of lights, he can't see Miguel's face when he leans over Johnny and thrusts out a hand towards him. Johnny stares at it for a moment. When it doesn't waver, he grasps it and lets Miguel pull him to his feet. All it takes is those slim, strong fingers closing around his palm and at once, the memory of how that same hand felt against his cock assaults him. 

Johnny lets go and takes a step back.

"Are you okay, Sensei?"

There's concern in Miguel's tone, which only aggravates the guilt that's making his chest feel tight, like that one time he had to wear a compression wrap after he broke a couple of ribs. 

"I think that should probably be my line," he says wryly, making a joke of it.

Miguel shakes his head. "I meant about earlier. When I got here. You looked like you were upset."

"I wasn't upset. I don't get _upset._ Am I a girl?" Johnny snorts, trying to brush it off, but Miguel keeps looking at him with a little frown between his eyebrows like he's genuinely worried, and Johnny feels he owes him an honest answer. "It's Sensei Kreese. I told him to get lost. He's not coming back."

"Good," Miguel says, more firmly than Johnny would have expected. He was under the impression that the kids liked Kreese. They seemed to be hanging onto his every word when Johnny came back earlier today.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sensei Kreese... he wasn't—" Miguel stops himself. "I liked it better when it was just you teaching us."

Johnny can't say he's not curious what Miguel wanted to say about Kreese there, but he's not sure if he wants to know. He can add it to the list of things he should be talking about with Miguel but is too much of a coward to address. He hates problems he can't just fight his way out of. He's good at that. This? Emotions, relationships, moral dilemmas... Yeah, no. 

He sighs. "Go home, Miguel. It's late. Your mum will be worried."

"I could help you lock up." Miguel looks hopeful, and even though Johnny probably owes him a ride home at the very least, he needs to be on his own right now.

"Nah, I'll be a while. There's something I gotta finish up." 

And if that _something_ is a bottle of vodka in the bottom drawer of his desk, Miguel doesn't have to know.

The kid stuffs his fists into his pockets, and it's too much effort for Johnny not to follow the motion with his eyes. Dammit, he needs to stop thinking about Miguel's hands. His gaze snaps up to Miguel's face where an uncertain smile stretches the corners of his mouth. It's a world away from the cocky little smirk he wore when he was making Johnny come. 

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow then?"

It sounds too much like a question, like he's expecting Johnny to kick him out of class or something, which is ridiculous. Johnny doesn't have half the reassurances for Miguel that he should have right now, after— after everything, but this is the one thing he can assure him of. Easy. 

"Sure." He nods. "See you tomorrow."

He watches Miguel raise his hand into an awkward little wave and turn around, picking up the bag he dropped before they started sparring as he walks toward the exit.

He's already got his hand on the door when Johnny finds his poise again. He can go hit the bottle and crack later, but it's not fair to put this on the kid. He straightens his back and puts the usual bite into his tone when he calls out, "Don't be late."

Miguel turns back, and Johnny can almost see how the tension leaves his body. "No, Sensei," he says, a grin on his face and a spring in his step.

The door swings shut after him, and Johnny's alone again.

End.


End file.
